


None so Lovely

by Mithlomi



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 1x06, Babies, Drabble, F/M, Fluff of the fluffiest variety, d'Art is a soppy sod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 10:04:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithlomi/pseuds/Mithlomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Instead, d’Artagnan has to resist the very real, and very strong temptation to reach out his fingers, brush the lock of hair behind her ear, press a kiss to her temple and tell her she is the loveliest woman in all of Paris..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	None so Lovely

**Author's Note:**

> Again, rot-your-teeth-sweet fluff. No excuses and no apologies  
> Unbeta'd

He is glad that the child is so young. Oblivious to all that has happened in the attempt on his life, he babbles softly in her arms, tiny hands grasping at the curls that have fallen from her braid as she rocks him gently. He is tiring, the gentle sway of her arms lulling him to sleep. She speaks in soft tones, as she smiles down at the tiny child, and her words are full of love and reassurance and comfort, even if the boy would not understand.

He would never remember the woman who held him right now, warm and safe against her breast.

d’Artagnan would.

Because she’s never looked more beautiful than this moment. And he has often thought her beautiful, more than he would care to admit. Moonlight caught in her hair, eyes bright in the firelight and the most wonderful smile curling her soft lips. He has studied every smile she has to offer and none shine so brightly as this…

His fingers clench tight to the arms of the chair in which he rests, across from her, pistol in his lap. They do not think anyone will suspect their ruse, Aramis’ clever plan but just in case, d’Artagnan is on guard, and the others will take turns to watch the house for the rest of the night. They’ll need a few days before they will risk the child being seen… and Constance was more than happy to provide the babe the shelter they needed.

But that is not the threat that he faces right now. Instead, d’Artagnan has to resist the very real, and very strong temptation to reach out his fingers, brush the lock of hair behind her ear, press a kiss to her temple and tell her she is the loveliest woman in all of Paris.

She is almost glowing. Motherhood suits her, as he always knew it would, and for the briefest, most fleeting of moments, he imagines a farm in Gascony, a window where Constance sits, a child in her arms- their child- and the look of resounding joy and wonder on her features is breathtaking…

Indeed, the air from his lungs catches in his throat and he coughs softly as he dismisses his wayward thoughts, the vision passing before he has the chance to consider what it means.

Because she is not his. And it will not be his child that she carries. As it isn’t now.

As if reading his mind, he blinks as he watches the smile slip from her lips, falling into sadness as she lifts her gaze from the now sleeping babe and into the slowly dying fire. He knows what she is thinking; he saw the same look on her face the other night, as she spoke of Agnes, of Henry, of loving someone so much you would give your own life for them and knowing she does not have such a blessing…

"Constance…" he breathes, furrow browed, unable to resist, unable to see her so upset and she breaks from her thoughts to look up at him. Her face softens into another small smile, and he already sees right through the attempt to reassure him that she is well. This woman does nothing but give and give and that’s when he reaches out, rests a hand against hers, just to remind himself that she is real…

The movement distracts her and she blinks down at his touch, before that spark is back. Mischief curls her lips and she gazes at him from under long lashes.

"Would you like to hold him?"

He does not answer, not straight away because his throat is dry and he has to recollect his thoughts from where they have strayed to forgetting every vow he made to himself and closing the distance and just kissing her there and then. But he soon remembers his voice and nods slowly as he mutters a simple ‘yes’.

He’s not entirely sure he’ll be comfortable holding the babe but how could he say no?

She stands then, shifting the child’s weight with delicate tenderness and care to one arm so she can set his own hold into the right position. She’s so close and that familiar scent of lavender that she carried threatens to overwhelm him. The child does not shift a muscle as she carefully transfers him to d’Artagnan’s arms and her fingers gently brush over the babe’s head as she slowly moves away. He knows he should look down at the child, but there is that wonderous smile once more and suddenly she looks up and her wide eyed gaze meets his own.

Oh God…

He loves her…


End file.
